


The Shelter

by murron



Series: No Place [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fic, Sequel, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-05
Updated: 2010-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-09 22:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murron/pseuds/murron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They hover like this for a while, neither in Castiel's vessel nor Dean's body, suspended somewhere in between and for a moment they are one, undivided.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shelter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eretria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eretria/gifts).



> Spoilers up to and including 5.13  
> Standard Disclaimers Apply
> 
> **a/n**: Sequel to Paper-thin Heart. AU because it veers off canon around episode 5.13, _The Song Remains The Same_

_They flap in the dark like flags tied to a pole, the winds of hell tearing at them, tearing at Dean. There's no sign the pull will ever cease and Castiel doesn't win an inch of ground. He can only hold on and so he does. He doesn't know how to feel hopelessness and surrender so even when Dean's soul tires enough to give in, Castiel simply takes a fresh grip and weathers out the storm. Slowly, patiently, Castiel gathers Dean to him until his soul curls into Castiel's embrace. They hover like this for a while, neither in Castiel's vessel nor Dean's body, suspended somewhere in between and for a moment they are one, undivided._

 

: : :

 

He did everything right: He filled the filter with ground coffee, one scoop per cup, poured water into the tank and put the glass carafe under the drip. Arms hanging at his side, Castiel stared at the machine for half a minute before he remembered he had to switch it on, too.

While the coffee boiled, Castiel went through the cabinets of the small kitchen but found only a package of crackers. It was perhaps surprising luck that he found even this little food. As Dean had explained to him, this was a summer place; the people who stayed here must have left for the city, taking all the perishable supplies with them.

It was a nice place, with snapshots of the lake tacked to the fridge door. Castiel liked the fruit-shaped fridge magnets. Studying the miniature pineapples, Castiel rubbed his left arm, the one that still felt numb from Lucifer's touch.

Once the coffee finished, Castiel filled a mug, hesitated, and poured a second. He balanced the crackers on the rim of his cup and carried the coffee out into the living room.

The house telegraphed the owners' love for wild fowl: There were ceramic birds scattered all over the room and a painting of flying ducks over the mantle. To the left, a panoramic window gave a view of the lakefront and a jetty. No birds on the lake, though.

Dean sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. He was staring out the window when Castiel came in but the smell of coffee caught his attention.

"Here," Castiel said, holding out the mug with the crackers on top. Dean quirked a brow but reached out for the coffee, cradling it close to his chest and dropping the crackers into his lap.

"Thanks," he muttered before adding. "God, I feel like ass."

"It's to be expected," Castiel agreed and sat down on the edge of the coffee table.

"Awesome," Dean huffed. He was still very pale, tugging the blanket close around him even though it was a warm day for late October and the sun had heated the house. Castiel could see the shadow of veins in the hand that held the coffee mug.

"Did you get Sam on the phone?" Dean wanted to know and Castiel nodded.

"Yes, he'll pick us up in the morning."

"Is it that long a drive?"

"Apparently."

Dean's mouth twitched into the semblance of a smile. "You had to lose your zap-magic now, hadn't you?"

Castiel sipped at his coffee and smiled back. "My timing has been better."

Holding on to his coffee mug, Dean tried to open the crackers one-handed and failed. Castiel took the package before Dean could tip hot coffee all over his leg and tore off a strip of plastic wrapping.

"What did he say?" Dean asked.

Handing back the crackers, Castiel went through the stream of expletives Sam had hurled at him and selected the positive, albeit very hidden bottom-line. "He's glad you're okay."

"He's pissed," Dean stated.

"Yes," Castiel admitted. To his mind, Sam had a right to be angry. He'd been against this plan from the beginning and the fact that Dean and Castiel went ahead and did it anyway had not pleased him. Not to mention that they had left without warning, preventing any further argument.

"He'll get over it," Dean predicted and leaned back against the couch. When he blew on his coffee, the warm steam flushed his cheeks. There were still some grass seeds caught in his hair.

"I can't believe it's over," Dean murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion and disbelief.

"It is," Castiel assured him and the lie came easily over his lips. When humans wanted something, they lied. Dean had a point there. Right now Castiel wanted nothing more than for Dean to feel safe.

They sat in silence for a while, digesting the truth: They had succeeded. The world was once more without Lucifer. They just might have saved seven billion people. They had definitely protected Sam.

Castiel looked out of the window, at the lake reflecting the salmon sky and the hemlocks flanking the bank. He felt… _fuzzy_, satisfied, maybe for the first time in his whole existence.

When he turned back from the view, Dean was watching him, catching his gaze with the same intensity he'd given off in the Green Room.

"What?" Castiel demanded.

Dean seemed to search his face, then shrugged. "I just never thought you would make me coffee."

Castiel thought this over and decided to attempt a joke. "I have many talents," he said and earned a chuckle.

"No shit, Sherlock."

Outside, the sun was about to set. As the light faded from the room, Castiel could see a shudder run through Dean's body. Dean closed both hands around his mug, drawing his feet up and under the blanket. Shadows pooled around him.

"How much do you remember?" Castiel wanted to know.

Dean took his time answering, drank more of his coffee. "I don't know," he said at length. "Just going into the dark, I guess. Waking up in the field."

"Good," Castiel said firmly and Dean frowned.

"Good?"

"Yes."

Eyes fixed on Castiel's face, Dean looked ready to prod but then seemed to think better of it. He bit a corner off a cracker and pulled a face, dipped the cracker into his coffee and ate it that way.

 

: : :

 

Dean fell asleep on the couch shortly before nightfall, head pillowed on his arm. Castiel watched from the coffee table, waiting for Dean to drift off before he bent over him. He could feel it right away: The air was colder around Dean than it was in the rest of the room. Castiel trailed his hand over Dean's sleeping form and found the chill surrounding him like a cocoon.

Just as he'd thought.

Moving quietly, Castiel picked up a quilt from the wing chair. Spreading the second blanket over Dean, Castiel felt a pang of worry that was, like all the other human feelings, new.

As far as Dean knew, his second brush with hell was over and done with. He didn't understand that the gate his soul had opened couldn't be closed. Castiel wouldn't explain. It wouldn't do Dean any good to know that he'd carry the path to hell around with him, always open, always ready for him to slip down into the dark.

As long as his soul was firmly interwoven with his body, Dean would be fine. He would sometimes feel the cold of the deep reaches, maybe, and sometimes sense hell's proximity in his sleep. If he didn't know the source of his discomfort, the breach under his soul wouldn't drive him crazy.

Or so Castiel hoped. He pulled the quilt over Dean's shoulder and felt the moving air slide over the back of his hand. Even now the winds from the pit purled around Dean. If Castiel held a candle close to Dean's skin, hell's breath would blow out the flame.

Pinching his mouth into a thin line, Castiel moved to the back of the couch and sat down at Dean's feet.

Castiel bowed over his knees and took off his shoes; slid back on the couch and carefully put his own feet up on the upholstery. Back braced against the cushions, he reached out and placed his hand on Dean's knee.

The dark deepening around them, Castiel imagined his Grace flowing out of him, climbing up along Dean's body until it covered him like yet another blanket. He couldn't do that. What he could do was close his eyes and pour his consciousness back into Dean's skin. Besides this body he now owned, Castiel was energy and he could feel fibres of his essence sink into Dean like the translucent, ghostly arms of jelly-fish.

Castiel trickled into Dean's veins and the lanes that shadowed them, careful not to make his presence known. Dean wouldn't appreciate the closeness but it was necessary and Castiel gave him privacy. He didn't pry into Dean's dreams, he sunk past them, deeper, lower, until he reached the open space beneath Dean's soul.

Castiel imagined it was like a road, a white serpentine leading to the drop off. Down here, the wind was stronger, fierce enough to scatter the weaker things passing into its pull. It was a forlorn, barren place, hungry to haul in everything in reach.

Castiel knew part of Dean was down here, would always be, even if he lived through every day unknowing. But as long as Castiel could follow him, he would shield him from harm and keep the wind at bay as best he could. He didn't have any wings to spread, not anymore, but he turned his back against the draft and blocked it, part of him wedged between Dean's soul and the chute down to hell.

Up on the couch, Castiel opened his eyes and the ghost-wind ceased. To his great relief, he could feel the warmth of Dean's thigh soaking up through the layers of quilt and blanket into his palm. Under Castiel's touch, Dean seemed to relax, his muscles no longer cramping with the cold.

Castiel sighed out a breath of his own. He didn't get tired but he thought he might soon learn how it felt. He still considered it a small price, the shortcomings of being tethered to earth, but with every day passing, he knew the taste of want and lack and worry better. It troubled him sometimes.

Tipping his head back against the couch, he turned to look at Dean's face, half hidden by the edge of the quilt. For a moment, he almost wished Dean would wake up and know Castiel was with him but that was a very human thing to crave.

 

: : :

 

_Returning to his vessel, Castiel returns to pain. Every inch of his body feels raw and mistreated, every muscle overtaxed. He collapses in a heap, his head on Dean's stomach, limbs sprawling. Against his cheek, Castiel can feel Dean's belly rise and fall with his breathing. Dean doesn't wake up for a while but he's back, all of him nestled safely into his flesh and bones. Castiel shuts his eyes, listens to the ebb and flow of Dean's breath and begins to heal. _

After a time, he can move. When he sits up, Dean's still passed out so Castiel gently touches his shoulder. Dean opens his eyes with a groan, lifts a hand to shield his face from the light. He tries to roll over on his side, body tense and awkward and it takes Castiel a moment to remember how to use his voice. "It's okay," he says.

He soon finds out he doesn't have the energy to transport them back to Bobby's place. Maybe that power will come back to him. Maybe it won't.

He's still strong enough in other ways, though, so he picks Dean up and carries him, heading for the east end of the field. Dean drifts back to consciousness and by the time they reach a lane outside the field, Dean's awake enough to realize what's going on.

"Let me down," he demands, voice grating up his throat.

"You can't walk," Castiel protests but Dean doesn't hear.

"Let me down._"_

Castiel does as he's told, lets Dean stand on his own, but he still has to brace him up as they make their way down the lane to a summer house that will be full of ducks.

fin  
_______________  
03/06/10

Beta by **Auburn**


End file.
